The Dragon Ring (Book 1)

by C. Craig Coleman

  “Smegdor, swing the iron pot over the flame.”

  The aide complied, noting how the king’s smooth demeanor and voice dispelled the quivering specter’s trepidation. As the cauldron heated, the magician tossed in packets of herbs and dried creatures long since dead. Ground sulfur, diverse minerals, and bones went into the pot with blood and other liquids. All melted into a steaming black brew, boiling down to an caustic substance like pitch.

  “I think this has attained sufficient potency,” Smegdor said.

  “Come closer and partake of this elixir,” the king said to the lost soul.

  Smegdor stepped back to the door.

  The wavering spirit drifted toward the portentous container. Without warning, the wizard snatched his wand. A single mystical word, a thrust, and he overpowered the dazed spirit. The king’s yellow eye blazed. His teeth gnashed.

  The victim twisted and recoiled.

  The king’s bloodshot eyes blazed. “Submit!”

  Smegdor jumped outside the doorframe and peered back around it.

  The sorcerer’s robes rippled violently as he grappled with the struggling specter.

  At last, one mournful screech lamenting creation, pierced the charged room. Above the simmering pot, a final valiant struggle preceded surrender. Then the glistening sludge sucked the flailing essence down the cauldron’s gaping throat. The bubbling goop belched sulfurous fumes, and then undulating, settled to the bottom of the black pot.

  “His resistance surprised even me,” the Dark Lord said.

  Smegdor couldn’t restrain his acute trembling. His voice cracked. “Me too.”

  “Of course, it was futile.”

  A chill ran through the aide in the fetid room. His neck hair frizzed and his crippled leg ached.

  “Place the pot on the worktable.”

  Smegdor hefted the cauldron on the stone surface. The soul struggled in the sparkly, ebony mass. Smegdor limped back to the wall farthest from the counter.

  The sorcerer opened the dusty book of spells to the appropriate page and glanced at his assistant. “Can you fathom the thing I conjure from this pot?” He chuckled then grew solemn. The warlock uttered the mystic words with careful tone and precise enunciation. He shuddered as the incantation transferred his own strength to the odious goop. Flashing off the sorcerer’s cold yellow eye, a mustard glow rose from the pot. The magician cast the pot’s mass into the pulsing energy stream. An iridescent vapor seeped from the column, shimmered, and condensed into plasma, reforming as a dark muscular, horned man.

  To Smegdor’s horror, the seething wraith awaited his master’s bidding.

  “I have a mission for your particular talents. I want you to find the source of a mysterious power in the South.”

  The phantom nodded subservience.

  * * *

  Flying south toward the Wizard’s Tower, Fedra caught Memlatec’s eye as the wizard passed along an outer corridor in the queen’s palace with Chatra Rakmar. The bird flew straight to the tower.

  “It’s no use. I wasn’t able to coax the queen back into the public eye,” Memlatec said. “She remains melancholy. I tried all approaches, but I couldn’t persuade her to attend the Autumn Fair she used to love so. I feel her sorrow’s effect on her, but I fear the sad ramifications of her decision more. So long away from her subjects, she’s losing the peoples’ affection.”

  From the chatra’s office, Memlatec hurried back to his tower, where the patient eagle sat on the high battlements. The old wizard stepped out on the balcony, catching his breath. Fedra inched closer.

  “What news have you?”

  Fedra relayed information the hawk passed along from Twit. Tournak was on the river above Olnak with Prince Saxthor and Lord Bodrin. They were sailing upriver and would reach Hyemka by nightfall the next day.

  “Fly to the boat with this note. The message will tell him to await me at Hyemka. He’s not to go to the town or venture up river to Heedra,” Memlatec said.

  The wizard watched as Fedra extended his wings, leaned forward, and deftly lifted off the battlements on the wind. The eagle soared south of Konnotan and turned to the west. Memlatec scanned to see if anything followed Fedra, then spun around and rushed back into the workroom. He hoped the witch’s creatures weren’t spying.

  His excited arrival had caught Aleman’s attention. He awaited instructions at the base of the staircase. Memlatec leaned over the landing.

  “Hurry, pack a few essentials. I must make a journey,” Memlatec said.

  “Where’re you going?”

  “It’s best you don’t know. If anyone asks, tell him I’m in the hills behind the tower. I need to be alone to commune with nature.”

  Memlatec returned to packing and scratched his head. He searched for essentials, mumbling all the while.

  “Darn you Aleman, you’ve been up here cleaning again.”

  “What did you say?” Aleman called up the stairs.

  “Nothing, go pack something to eat. I have to leave right away. Remember, no one’s to know I’m away from Konnotan.”

  Memlatec heard Aleman shuffle away. He turned to the owl.

  “I’ve no time to walk to Hyemka; I’d be too late. I don’t want anyone seeing me anyway. Though dangerous, I must transform into a smaller size and fly with you to Hyemka to beat the boat there.”

  Once packed, Memlatec took the great horned owl from his perch in the corner and out onto the balcony, he transformed, and mounted the bird.

  “To Hyemka with all speed!”

  The huge owl leapt up; silent wings flapped. They flew into the night and reached Hyemka the same evening as did the refugees.

  19: Reunion of Memlatec and the Exiles

  Standing tall in the shadows above the River Nhy, Memlatec turned his dark cloak’s silver, rune-glittering edges inside. The river’s chilly breeze blew his robes tightly against his slender frame. He checked that his hood covered his white hair and scanned his surroundings, reassuring himself no one had followed or discovered his presence. Only then did Memlatec resume scrutinizing the river’s course, squinting to see through the darkness in his search for the long overdue boat.

  “They must come soon.”

  The great horned owl stood patiently on Memlatec’s shoulder, searching the nocturnal gloom for movement as well. Shifting to stabilize himself in a gust of wind, the bird’s talons pricked the wizard’s bony flesh. The old man flinched.

  “Careful there.”

  The owl screwed his neck a quarter turn and gave Memlatec an indignant glare from his eyes’ enormous golden pools. Nothing said, yet everything communicated, the night hunter soared into the darkness, relocating his wounded dignity in the nearby gnarled oak to continue the vigil.

  “Where could they be? Soon we’ll lose night’s cover to the moon’s probes. Fedra said they’d reach Hyemka at dusk. The eagle is never wrong about such things. They must be out there somewhere, but I still can’t find them.”

  The owl returned to the old man’s shoulder.

  A tiny flicker of light from the pine thicket to his right caught the sorcerer’s eye. The faintest hint of something substantial and black stirred in the dark woods.

  “What’s that?” Memlatec said, staring at the opaque forest curtain. The owl’s head rotated. Nothing moved. Only the slight sound of ripples breaking on the riverbank disturbed the night. They stared at the impenetrable thicket. A minor pressure on his shoulder and Memlatec followed the flying owl’s trace, disappearing into the blackness. The motionless wizard stood without breathing—silence… a sudden thud.

  The victor reappeared, silent wings carrying him toward the river with the appendages of a dead raven dangling from his talons. The night stalker flew out over the channel and dropped the lifeless watcher. It splashed a silvery circle, glittering in the dark water. For an instant, the bird spun in an eddy, and then it surrendered to the current that swept it down river into the ebony gloom. The owl returned to Memlatec’s shoulder where the warlock stroked h
is breast feathers. They resumed their vigil.

  “That one won’t report back to the witch.”

  Moments later, water dripping from oars first alerted the old wizard. His head jerked in the direction of the sound’s source. A clear thud from an oar tapping against its boat cracked the silence.

  “Find Tournak; he’ll bring them here.”

  He lifted the owl and launched him gently toward the river. With difficulty, the wizard followed the vigilant bird slicing through the night, soaring on silent wings straight to the fishing vessel straining against the current. The owl tucked in his wings to settle without a sound on the steering oar’s handle, held by Memlatec’s former assistant. Tournak turned the craft to the dark bank beyond the lights of Hyemka.

  No sooner was the vessel secured to a sapling than Memlatec approached and boarded her. He snapped his fingers, ejecting the mud on his robes, and slipped into the modest cabin. Tournak was first to join Memlatec inside.

  “Tournak Delphendor, my old friend, I’m delighted you’ve returned safely after so long away. That full beard becomes a middle-aged man. I perceive those active young men kept you in shape, too, though you appear a bit pale.” Head cocked, the old wizard scrutinized and embraced his protégée. Tournak’s appreciative smile warmed his face. Memlatec patted his shoulders.

  “An encounter with jellyfish and a dragon, I’ll tell you about it later.”

  “A dragon?” Memlatec repeated.

  Tournak smiled. “I expect you’ll be pleased with our charges. Seven years is a long time away, but they’ve trained hard and learned well. Your message was timely. Saxthor has a mind of his own. He been insisting on returning and your communication tipped the balance.”

  Memlatec squeezed Tournak’s hand as they turned to the opening door. Saxthor, now a young man, stooped to enter and straightened up, beaming a radiant smile at the two wizards. They stood for a moment, appraising each other, before Saxthor moved to shake his old mentor’s hand.

  “Memlatec, I’m so pleased to see you again after all these years,” Saxthor said. “We’ve come home to assist mother and father in reviving Neuyokkasin. It’s time I returned to serve my dynasty and kingdom.”

  “Your return is the embodiment of hope, Prince Saxthor,” the magician said. He stepped forward to embrace the youth. “Time has been good to you. I sent away a shaken boy and a confident man has returned. You’re nothing like the gangly twelve-year-old youth with protruding ears we spirited into exile seven years ago. Your long, wavy blond hair is most becoming.”

  The wizard turned to the tall, dark-haired youth who followed Saxthor in and was closing the cabin door behind him.

  “Bodrin Vicksnak, I deduce from your warrior’s build you’ve taken Tournak’s training to heart.” Memlatec shook Bodrin’s hand. “The short, curly black hair becomes you. I noted your first glance was toward Saxthor. You still guard him as closely as ever. That you’re all in such excellent condition after so long away is a much needed relief.”

  Memlatec motioned for the men to sit around the simple, wooden table with a lone flickering candle. The sorcerer cocked his ear to listen. After a moment’s reflection, he smiled.

  The water lapping against the hull isn’t out of rhythm, Memlatec thought. Nothing to be alarmed about, I hope the owl’s alert. Memlatec turned back and stooped to avoid bumping his head on the low ceiling, yet still towered over the seated men.

  “Your return is well-timed. I must get right to the point. You cannot go home to Konnotan.

  “What?” Bodrin said. “That’s what you said when last we met.”

  “It’s far too dangerous. Witch Earwig is more powerful and sinister. She’ll destroy you if she discovers you’re alive and within her reach. The sorceress still believes you lost and forgotten. We must let her think that for as long as possible.”

  “We’ve not seen our families in seven years, Memlatec,” Saxthor said.

  “I understand you’re homesick and want to see them, but for the present, you mustn’t return to Konnotan. A monumental danger threatens Neuyokkasin, indeed all Powteros and you alone, Saxthor, possess the ability to confront it. You can serve your family and kingdom best another way. I have a perilous, yet vital mission, whose objective only you command the power to achieve.

  “I’m just nineteen. I’ve been away from continental affairs for half my life. What can I accomplish? This has to do with the unique ability I possess, doesn’t it?”

  Memlatec nodded and locked his focus on Saxthor.

  “The timing is crucial. Only you retain the ability to find and retrieve the Crown of Yensupov’s scattered and hidden jewels.”

  “How am I associated with this Crown of Yensupov?” Saxthor asked smacking his hand on the table. “I thought it a mere children’s tale in my youth.”

  He glanced at Bodrin, Tournak, and back at Memlatec. The prince leaned forward, staring, hands clasped, forearms an arrowhead pointing at the wizard.

  Memlatec stiffened, his robes flowed out like roots shoring up the old wizard. Saxthor’s companions shifted in anticipation.

  “No one but you can locate and invoke the commands to retrieve the crown’s power crystals. Ages ago, wizards removed and concealed the gemstones across the peninsula’s kingdoms so that only the crown’s inheritor could find them and restore the crown. That power came to you. I thought the crown prince had the gift. The witch and I both discovered our mistake when the lunadar crystal grew radiant in your hand at the well all those years ago. I sent you into exile not only to escape Earwig’s murderous attacks, but also to keep you hidden. The witch’s mentor, the Dark Lord, King of Dreaddrac, would kill you in an instant if he knew you inherited the ability to control the Crown of Yensupov he still thinks lost.”

  “You recalled us for this didn’t you? It wasn’t Neuyokkasin needing my help.” Saxthor stood and turned to the door. He ran his fingers through his hair, looked to Tournak and Bodrin in turn, then to Memlatec.

  While the wizard kept his focus on Saxthor, Bodrin and Tournak glanced back and forth to the two standing over them, locked in the situational struggle. Memlatec broke the silence.

  “Hidden in the depths of the Ice Mountains, the sorcerer-king has rebuilt his soulless forces. I suspect his minions may even have infiltrated several of the peninsula’s kingdoms. Such brazen intrusions indicate his military might is peaking. Invasion can’t be far off. The quarrelsome and unprepared states bordering Dreaddrac perceive nothing. Only the crown’s power, which you wield, can thwart the mad warlock in his ambition to conquer all Powteros.”

  “Memlatec, you’re the most powerful of wizards,” Saxthor said. “You’ve guided and protected me to safety on Helshia. I’m not questioning what you ask. I realize from your glare this is vital.”

  “Absolutely vital,” Memlatec said.

  “I left as a boy. I’ve no knowledge of the peninsula or its ways. How can I find scattered, hidden jewels in such a vast, unfamiliar place?”

  Memlatec stepped around the table and put his sinewy hand on Saxthor’s shoulder. “Only you have that capability.”

  “There’s no one else?”

  “No one.”

  “In returning to Neuyokkasin, you’re in danger of discovery, as am I for coming here to meet you. Nonetheless, I came to beg you to undertake this mission for the sake of your family, your kingdom-- the whole civilization.”

  “Can Aunt Irkin be so powerful, such a serious threat, that she could undermine the entire kingdom?” Saxthor asked. He folded his arms across his chest.

  Memlatec mentally checked the water slapping the boat’s hull for any change in cadence. He leaned forward, closing the distance between himself and Prince Saxthor, and continued.

  “Your aunt is a lethal menace, but the sorcerer-king of Dreaddrac is a much greater threat. I’m asking you, Saxthor, to go in search of the Crown of Yensupov’s power jewels. If Tournak and Bodrin will accompany you, all the better, but know the mission may cost your lives. The southe
rn kingdoms and principalities of the Powterosian peninsula are unprepared to withstand the evil force poised to sweep down on them from Dreaddrac’s sinister and ambitious king. The Dark Lord is the danger; Earwig is but his puppet.”

  Saxthor sat down, put his head in his hands and thought a moment. His head popped back up. Memlatec moved around the table and stroking his beard, fixed his stare searching Saxthor’s face. Tournak cleared his throat. It was like thunder in the silence. Memlatec glanced at Tournak and then to Saxthor.

  “Having been away so long, I know each of you harbors an overwhelming desire to return to family and friends. Saxthor, I must call on your sense of dynastic responsibility to overrule homesickness and accept this challenge. Do you remember Neuyokkasin’s history? The stories the queen told you as a child when visiting your ancestors at Konnotan’s royal tombs?”

  “I do.” Saxthor dropped his crossed arms and began doodling on the tabletop with his finger. “I was just nine when mother took us kids there. She pointed out the ancestors’ mausoleums and told us what each king achieved for Neuyokkasin’s people. “Those imposing marble monuments made a profound impression on me then. My brother and sister squirmed to get back to the palace, yet I was fascinated and wanted to hear all she could tell about them.”

  “Your mother didn’t want to rule, but she wouldn’t shirk her dynastic obligations. She had to take the throne or the kingdom might have dissolved under your uncle’s corruption and Irkin’s ostentatious arrogance and social ambition.”

  “Too bad Uncle Minnabec wasn’t up to the royal responsibilities. I wouldn’t be here now with you carefully trussing me up in your plan.” Saxthor grinned at the wizard, who ignored Saxthor’s remark.

  “Saxthor’s father and mine were best friends, too,” Bodrin said. His eyes twinkled. “My father said the Calimon family had the kingdom’s highest integrity. I’ll go with him whatever he decides.”

  Memlatec nodded and put his hand on Bodrin’s shoulder.

  “Saxthor’s father, the young Count Augusteros Calimon de Chatronier, was of equally prominent lineage as his mother. The count brought the ancient gentility of his house to Neuyokkasin’s throne. Known for integrity and dignity, the Calimon dynasty has revived the support of both the nobility and the general populace.”